Chapter Text
John had felt rotten since the moment he awoke at 5 o'clock this morning, throat burning and feeling the beginnings of a fever. Logically, he should have stayed in bed. He should have called for Mrs Hudson to get him a glass of water and some paracetamol and then he should have just rolled over and gone back to sleep. And John was a logical man... when it came to everyone else.
But John was also stubborn. And John also hated feeling ill, and vulnerable, and staying in bed was just lazy, even if he was sick as a dog - and John Watson most certainly is not lazy.
He stayed in bed, coughing and shivering, until his alarm went off at 6 o'clock, and then he stumbled downstairs, ignoring the vertigo but keeping one hand on the wall the whole time. He eventually made it to the sitting room and thankfully found it to be empty – hopefully Sherlock was still asleep. John liked it when Sherlock slept, because Sherlock didn't sleep all that much and it hurt the doctor inside of him and... and... and what the hell has happened to my brain the fever must be turning it to mush. John frowned at himself and continued on to the kitchen.
It took him a while to reach up to grab a mug for his cup of tea because his muscles were aching and he was still quite dizzy but John likes tea so John got his tea. And then John drank his motherfucking tea, thanking you kindly, sir. And then John had to run to the bathroom to throw up his tea.
As he slouches on the cold bathroom tiles, John contemplates calling in sick. He's allowed to do that, right? But no – no! - he doesn't have time for moping about at home, he has to go to work. It's his duty as a fixing man. So he shuffles upstairs, grasping onto the banister like a lifeline because his vision is blurring in and out but the people need him. Once he finally makes it up to his room, he quickly – or as quickly as he can right now – gets changed and runs his hands through his sweat dampened hair before grabbing his phone and keys, giving his bed one last longing look, and all but stumbling down the stairs.
But before he can make it down the second lot he bumps into Sherlock – literally. As if staying upright wasn't hard enough for John already.
John splutters in surprise which starts off a manic coughing fit. Black dots are appearing at the corners of his vision and he has no idea whether he's still standing or not because the rooms spinning so much and is it honestly possible to cough up your lung? You'd think as a doctor he'd know, but- but-
“John?”
And then he's back, and the coughing has subsided into a mere tickle and the black dots at the edges of his vision drift away to give him a perfect view of Sherlock's face just inches away from his own, a somewhat concerned frown darkening it. Belatedly, John realises that he's almost doubled over and that Sherlock's surprisingly strong hands – one under his left arm and one on his right shoulder, so that he's crouched in front of John – are all that's keeping him from keeling over.
“Back to bed then, John?” And though his tone is light, John can sense some hesitancy behind it, because John is the doctor, dammit, and he should be doing the whole 'caring' thing. And it's with that thought in mind - that being ill is everyone else's job, while John pets hands and gives out medication and mops sweaty brows – John straightens himself up, one arm wrapped protectively around his aching stomach, and squints menacinglyat Sherlock.
“No.”
And when Sherlock just frowns at him confusedly John takes it as his opportunity to exit.
Not very quickly, like, but at least he's proved his point.
John Watson is not weak.
*****
He gets sent home from work with barely a glance from Sarah.
He tries to put up a firm protest, but with the way he was clinging onto the wall, and barely able to form coherent sentences because his head was spinning and his thoughts were all muddled due to his fever, it wasn't really much of a fair fight.
So that's how he finds himself stumbling down the street in a cold sweat, pale and shivering, and earning many a concerned glance from passers-by. One or two security cameras follow his uneven steps, but he doesn't even have the energy to flip them the bird. He's got a mantra of Baker Street, Tea, Bed flowing in his thoughts and he clings to that. But then he gets the horrible urge to puke, and the mantra is forgotten and turned into the single thought of Where the fuck can I puke??! before he stumbles blindly into an alleyway.
He trips over his own heavy feet and falls forward onto his weak arms, which give way beneath him. The ground and the sky and the world is spinning but he somehow finds the initiative and strength to push himself up and slump against the wall, which is blessedly cool on his back.
After a few moments of just blinking slowly he realises that he can't sit like this forever and so the still relatively functional part of his brain reaches for his coat pocket and takes out his phone.
Sherlock is his immediate answer, and also just so happens to be number one on his speed dial.
His shaking hands clumsily hold the phone up to his ear as it connects, barely making it past two rings before it's answered.
“John?”
“Haaay, 'lock.”
The pregnant pause which follows is filled only by John's congested breathing.
“What's wrong? Are you still at the surgery?” He sounds impatient now, and it makes John cringe. Impatient Sherlock is angry Sherlock.
“Mmmn, I'm not feeling... well. I think I- oh, 'lock, can you come and pick me up, please?”
“Okay, okay, okay, okay. Just STAY where you are, alright? I'll be at the surgery promptly.”
John snorts. “Well, that'd be silly, seeing as I'm not at the bloody surgery. They sent me home, can you believe!”
“Yes, John, I really can. If you're not at the surgery, tell me where you are.”
“An alley.”
There's another long pause as Sherlock appears to be trying very hard not to lose his patience.
John sneezes.
“...an alley WHERE, John?”
Ugh, that's a tough 'un! Sherlock always asks the hardest fucking questions. John looks at his surroundings blearily.
“Dunno... there's a- there's a pub jus'cross from me. S'got a blue door, and a pig... s'a pig-”
But Sherlock's already interrupting him, “Alright, good, I know where you are, I'm coming John. Just. Stay. Put. Okay? Don't you dare move, or talk to anyone, or get any more sick. I'm coming.”
And then Sherlock's gone, and all John can do is shiver and snivel as quietly as he can until his knight in sexy armour comes to rescue him. Hahahahaha...
Wait, what?
*****
It's only minutes later, or at least is only feels like minutes later, that Sherlock is calling his name and jogging across the street, his face paler even than usual.
He crouches before John, putting alarge, cool hand on John's feverish skin. His calculating eyes are searching his face, but all John can do is stare back blearily as he slowly comprehends that Sherlock's apparently yelling at him as he rests his palm against John's forehead, and grasps his wrist to take his pulse. He curves a steady arm around John's waist, and pulls John's own limp limb over his shoulder as he drags him off to the awaiting taxi.
“Jesus christ, John, you just about gave me a heart attack! I told you just to stay in bed today, but oh no, why would you listen to the consulting detective? It's not like I'm known for being super smart and observant! You are utterly irresponsible, and you call yourself a doctor? Well, I'm not surprised this happened, nope, not at all with the way you treat yourself- ”
And his rambling doesn't stop, even after they're seated in the wonderfully warm taxi, and Sherlock's coat is wrapped around John's shivering, achy form, and he's pulled against Sherlock's side to keep him from just flopping over. But John just closes his eyes and rests his fuzzy head against Sherlock's pointy shoulder, finally giving in.
And even then Sherlock's rambling doesn't stop, but it does pause for a second and then continue in grumpy mutters under his breath.
Perhaps being looked after every once in a while isn't all bad.